


it was just like a song

by quidhitch



Series: holidays & divorce [1]
Category: The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: (a hopeful ending?), Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Divorce, Valentine's Day, prequel to the christmas fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-29 03:39:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17800397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quidhitch/pseuds/quidhitch
Summary: Tony takes in the sight before him and sighs— a deep, long sigh, one that reflects the severity of the situation but simultaneously recognizes that he probably brought this on himself.His ex-husband is currently stretched across Tony’s absurdly expensive futon, drooling onto the microfibre and contorted into a shape that will definitely give him neck pain later. On his chest is a heart-shaped box of chocolates, half of which appear to have been eaten.





	it was just like a song

**Author's Note:**

> this is technically a prequel to the christmas fic i wrote but i think it can probably be read as a standalone <3
> 
> happy late valentine's days 2 the homies title is from when we were young by queen adele

Tony takes in the sight before him and sighs— a deep, long sigh, one that reflects the severity of the situation but simultaneously recognizes that he probably brought this on himself.

His ex-husband is currently stretched across Tony’s absurdly expensive futon, drooling onto the microfibre and contorted into a shape that will definitely give him neck pain later. On his chest is a heart-shaped box of chocolates, half of which appear to have been eaten. He looks pretty terrible, with bags under his eyes, poorly maintained stubble over his jaw, and rumpled clothes that look like they haven’t been washed this month.

The really shitty thing about it is that Tony knows, when Steve does end up leaving, this image of him is going to be burned behind Tony’s eyelids, probably paired with the words ‘you did this to him’ playing on a maddening loop inside his head.

Frankly, the whole thing smells a little like karmic retribution for the time Tony pulled the same Drunk, Horny, and At Your Door act about a month and a half ago. He will say, though, he had the decency to knock instead of _break in_.

“I need a better security team,” he says, voice loud and authoritative even as he pinches the bridge of his nose in annoyance.

Steve startles awake at the sound of his voice, seeming to choke on the breath of his own snoring (which is very attractive) as he fumbles into a sitting position. The heart-shaped box falls off his chest and a few uneaten chocolate tumble onto the floor.

“Fuck,” Steve says, eyes still squeezed shut. He starts rubbing his temple and Tony knows -- remembers, actually, from three years of marriage -- that this means he has a bitch of a prosecco-induced headache.

“Fuck,” Tony agrees.

“How did I get here?”

“Here as in my penthouse? My working theory is you picked the lock. And Jarvis didn’t kick you out because I still haven’t removed you from the house roster.”

“You haven’t?” Steve croaks.

Tony ignores him.

“What’s really more pressing to me, at the moment, is the why,” Tony says, and has the horrible thought that he sounds old. And tired -- more tired than he’s ever remembered being before.

“I bought you chocolate,” Steve’s eyes are slitted open now, and he’s sitting with his hands braced on his knees, which means he’s trying pretty hard not to vomit. “I _tried_ to buy you chocolate. I got hungry.”

Tony glances at the half smooshed truffle on his wool carpet. “I can see that.”

“Bought you balloons, too.” Steve raises his head just slightly and nods upwards.

Lo and behold, when Tony looks he finds a few tacky (also heart-shaped) helium balloons settled in the concave of his ceiling. The string is well out of reach of Tony, but when Steve stands up he’ll be tall enough to get them, and this only furthers Tony’s ire.

“You had a date,” Steve says suddenly. He’s looking at Tony now, eyes still squinted, features contorted into a wince. There’s something so sad in the tilt of his brow, the way he takes in Tony’s appearance with a slow, dragging gaze then quickly averts his eyes, like he’s remembered he’s no longer allowed to look.

“I didn’t have a date.”

“Yes you did. That’s your date suit.”

“I wear this suit for other things.”

Steve somehow manages to look emotionally devastated and wry at the same time. “Like what?”

Tony thinks for half a second. “—Quinceañeras.”

The corner of Steve’s mouth twitches into a half-hearted smile, but it’s gone so fast, lost to the heaviness of his mouth and brow. “I’m sorry, Tony. I think--” Steve cuts himself off, shaking his head. He rubs at the corner of his eye and takes a steadying breath. “--I think I came here on instinct. I was trying to get home.”

Everything in Tony just _melts_.

“I can leave. I’m leaving.”

Steve tries to get up and sways a little in the process, one hand shooting out to steady himself on the coffee table. Tony only manages to watch him teeter for a second and a half before has to say something.

“Alright, Lindsay Lohan, that’s enough of that,” Tony steps forward, places a tentative hand on Steve’s shoulder to keep him upright. Steve looks at him with those ridiculously lurid eyes, a strange contrast against the shadows that seem to have subsumed the rest of his face. “I’m not sending you home like this. Hop in the shower.”

“What about your date?” Steve asks, voice low and small.

Tony exhales a laugh and shakes his head. On pure instinct, he reaches to brush the back of his hand along the line of Steve’s jaw. “Told you I didn’t have a date.”

Steve offers another small, humorless smile. “Okay.”

Tony waits for him to trudge all the way out of the living room — keeps waiting, for the click of the bedroom door — before calling Pepper’s friend to tell her he’s not feeling well.

 

* * *

 

Steve ends up getting in the shower with his clothes on, which shouldn’t really be surprising to Tony considering he was always good at playing down his level of drunkenness until the absolute worst moment. Tony has to get in the shower with him and pull wet clothes off his body, pretend not to notice the bruises across his torso or the fact that Tony’s initials are wrapped around his hip, written in neat, black ink.

There’s nothing erotic about it, really. Tony just wants to lay on his chest until he’s not sad anymore. Steve always said he felt a little bit better about the whole world, when Tony was laying on his chest.

Tony hasn’t sent back or thrown out any of his clothes, so he sets a pair of sweats and a t-shirt onto the bed and ambles off to the kitchen to make hot chocolate.

Steve emerges a while and a half later, to find Tony doing paperwork at the kitchen counter with his reading glasses slipped too far down the slope of his nose.

Tony wordlessly offers him a still-steaming mug. Steve plods towards him, settles in one of the stools at the island, and takes it, bringing it to his chapped lips with a slightly shaking wrist.

Tony sets down his pen.

“What happened?” he asks, shaking his head. “I thought things were getting better.”

Steve offers up another one of those stomach-dropping humorless smiles. “Did someone tell you I was on vacation in Banff?”

“It’s all over your Instagram,” Tony says, and then, upon hearing those words aloud, instantly realizes how ridiculous they sound. “....oh. Barnes or Wilson?”

“A team effort,” Steve sighs, taking a sip of his hot chocolate. Tony knows it’s far more watery than he would make it, but it still smooths out a line or two on Steve’s forehead. “I’d complain about it but at least Bucky’s smiling more these days.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah. Really good.” Steve’s looking down at his hands now, running his thumb along his ring finger with this dreary, cast over expression.

The first thing Tony ever thought about him was that he looked like sunshine.

“I didn’t fake my vacations,” Tony says, pausing to take a small sip of his hot chocolate. “But I did-- I mean, I _do_ pathetic post-divorce things, too.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Like exponentially increasing the net worth of your company in record-breaking time?”

“That,” Tony says, though he doesn’t even feel the usual shiver of pride that accompanies those words. “And... other things. Remember when I called you? About a week and a half ago?”

Steve only has to think for a split second before recollection lights up his face. “Oh, yeah-- about where to find the good pork rinds in the bodega on 82nd.”

“Uh-huh, yeah. I may not have actually… been in the bodega for that phone call. In fact, I might have had that information memorized from the second you told it to me. --Which was, I will say, far too late in our marriage, and I maintain that you were purposefully and spitefully holding out on me.”

“A reasonable assumption.

“I thought so."

A silence passes between them, awkward and strange in a way silences never were before. Tony’s throat feels tight, even as he clears it to try and speak again.

“I just missed the sound of your voice. I’d been in and out of meetings all day, I was exhausted. And the only person I wanted to talk to you was you, except we haven’t been so good at talking, lately.”

Amusement glints in Steve’s eyes as he says “so you asked me about pork rinds.”

“So I asked you about pork rinds.”

Steve smiles, and this time, Tony sees his dimples, sees the creases around his eyes. He doesn’t actually sigh in relief, but it’s a very near thing.

 

* * *

 

Steve stays. It’s not something they need to talk about, because it doesn’t matter if his name’s on the lease of a dingy two-bedroom in Brooklyn. This is still his home.

He lays on the couch with his head propped against Tony’s thigh. Tony does paperwork and runs an idle hand through his unkempt hair. He loves the way Steve looks with a bedhead and softly lidded eyes.

“I love this song,” Steve sighs.

Tony snorts. “Everyone in the world loves this song.”

“Doesn’t make it any less worth loving.”

That makes something catch in Tony’s chest, and, in lieu of saying something sentimental and ridiculous, he tugs a little too hard on Steve’s hair.

“You always did start to sound like a Hallmark card the closer we got to Valentine’s Day.”

“I was great at Valentine’s Day.”

“You weren’t terrible,” Tony concedes. “Though I did set the bar pretty low for you.”

Steve takes Tony’s hand and brushes a kiss along his knuckles. “I thought you were great at Valentine’s Day, too.”

“You’re only saying that ‘cause you don’t _actually_ have to spend it with me anymore.”

“Doesn’t make it any less true,” Steve echoes, and Tony rolls his eyes in a weak attempt to beset his smile.

The song is over, but Steve gets Tony up off the couch anyway. He wraps an arm around Tony’s waist and loosely clasps their fingers together, swaying in a way that might be dancing but might also indicate lingering intoxication.

And, even still, when Tony looks up at him, he doesn’t see the face of the man who hurt him, the man who left him, the man who went on a fake vacation to Banff. He sees the man he’s in love with, a man who is almost certainly in love with him, too.

“God,” Tony says, helpless to the urge to drift closer. “We’re not supposed to be doing this anymore,”

Steve looks sad and resigned and a million other things he shouldn’t look on Valentine’s Day.

“I know.”

“We got _divorced._ ”

“I know.”

Tony kisses him. Steve gathers him close, holding Tony tight and certain like a raft in a storm.

 

* * *

 

Tony has an early morning flight -- Tony always has an early morning flight, except these days he's inclined to actually make them on time.

It’s a trial, pulling away from Steve’s sleep warm skin and groping for his clothes in the dark, but this is both of their punishment for calling it quits. They made their bed and now they have to get out of it. _Ha._

He hopes to leave before Steve wakes up, because he’s a coward like that, but he accidentally stabs his toe on the nightstand and his resulting grunt of pain makes Steve’s eyes flutter open.

“Morning,” his voice is low and rough with sleep, and he’s rubbing his cheek like he’s afraid he drooled. “You have a flight?”

“I have a flight.”

Tony kisses Steve goodbye like he’s trying to memorize the shape of his mouth, to take Steve with him when he leaves.

“You gonna call me?” Steve asks, leaning back against the pillows, smile soft and sated. “You never call your hookups.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” Tony shrugs his jacket over his shoulders. Steve is gorgeous right now, and if he takes a minute to stare he knows he’ll be tempted to stay. “Gotta hit the road, baby. You’re welcome to anything in the house.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Tony pauses in the doorway, hand hovering over the frame. He steals one last glance at Steve stretched out against the sheets, face sweet and open like he knows something the rest of the world doesn’t.

“Happy Valentine’s, Steve.”

 

* * *

 

Tony texts him from the tarmac, right before the plane takes off.

_Is it weird if two divorced people take a platonic vacation to Banff together?_

He turns off his phone before he has a chance to read the response, but if he spends the whole of his six hour flight smiling softly at his sparkling water, that’s nobody’s business but his.

**Author's Note:**

> i have so many wips come cry w/ me at quidhitch on tumblr


End file.
